The night they returned from Ravenwood to Skylark, Grace Barron stepped into her home, slipped off her shoes, and stood for a while facing the hush of the apartment. The rooms answered with their own soft emptiness, as if holding their breath with her.
She had first entered this place when she was just a child—barely five years old, at that tender age when the world was still half-dream, half-puzzle.
Her birth parents had died suddenly in rear-end collision, the kind of sudden ending adults turned into headlines. The tragedy caught the media's attention, stories spreading, faces she didn't know glancing at her through flashing cameras. Overnight she became a hot potato, passed from relative to relative, none of them willing to take responsibility to take care of her.
It was a coincidence, or the kind that looks like one. Her adoptive mother, Hannah Barron, fragile from several miscarriages, had begun to consider adoption. Her husband, Devin Barron, was then heavily involved in charity work, and together they decided to cross the distance and bring Grace home—giving her their last name, a family, a new registry.
Grace still remembered the day she arrived. It was a summer afternoon, drenched in gold. Devin and Hannah lived then in a small villa on the outskirts of Skylark, its garden blooming with flowers under the tender sun, a scene painted in oil. And there, at the door, stood her grandmother—an elegant figure in a pale silk dress, waiting with patient eyes.
The little girl had been thinking hard about how to speak, how to sound sweet enough, endearing enough, so no one would regret taking her in. But before she could manage more than a tentative greeting, Grandmother grasped her hand, eyes brimming with kindness.
"This must be little Grace?"
Grace could only nod, startled and solemn.
With a sigh, Grandmother bent to touch her soft hair, her thin arms, and said with a certainty that silenced all her fears:
"Poor child… don't be afraid. From now on, this is your home. Settle here in peace."
Unlike Devin, who kept his face set as if kindness took effort, or Hannah, whose gentle surface never quite hid a draft of cool air, Grandmother's welcome came warm and true. Grace felt it like a hand on her back—steadying.
That same afternoon, Hannah led her to bathe and wash her hair Afterward, with her hair towel-damp and heavy, she reached for the blow-dryer and discovered it was shelved too high. She went looking for Hannah. No sign of her in the hall, nor in the sitting room. Passing the kitchen heard low voices and pause. She leaned to the doorway and peeked in, Grandma was at the spotless stovetop, a pot murmuring toward soup. Hannah stood at the great kitchen island, slicing a cucumber into even coins.
Grace was about to opened her mouth to call out, but Hannah's words stopped her.
"To be honest, I don't know if bringing this child home was a good decision… Sometimes I just wish I could have one of my own. But this body… useless… I wonder if I'm paying for sins in a past life."
The words closed Grace's mouth. They stilled her feet. After the accident she had grown keen to shadows in people; she had sensed the struggle in Hannah long before. But hearing it spoken—that was another kind of weather.
But Grandmother's voice cut in, crisp as a bell. "Well, what's the use of saying that now? She's part of our family now, a Barron. So put your heart into it and treat her well."
"She's suffered enough," Grandma went on. "I saw that news report—imagine it: a child of four or five watching her parents die right before her eyes… how helpless, how terrified she must have been. If you've decided to give her a home, then give her a home truly. Let her grow up healthy and glad to be alive."
Grandma's eyes lifted, a slant of steel in the kindness. "And don't think too much of yourselves. A child this lovely—even if it's not us, another family would have gladly taken her. You reap what you sow. Don't be smug."
Hannah faltered, then forced a smile. "I know, I was only saying it…"
"No. Not in front of her. Children may be small, but they sense everything—whether the love they're given is true or false, abundant or scarce. Don't forget that."
Hannah cleared her throat, subdued. "Yes, yes… I understand."
Then Grandma smiled again, softening.
"Go check the soufflé cake I baked. Bring it out with extra strawberries, more powder sugar on top. Children love the pretty things, the sweet things. Just seeing it will make her happy."
…
Little Grace had stood there blinking back tears, not fully grasping the adult words, yet feeling the weight of them all the same. Her nose stung. And in her memory, Grandma remained as she was then: hair swept into a bun, spectacles perched on her nose, her smile both wise and beautiful. That image, etched into her heart, would never fade.
Now, returning to the quiet apartment, Grace lowered her head, unlocked her phone, and opened apptalk. She tapped for a video call.
After ten seconds, the screen lit with her grandmother's face— Her hair had gone white and airy with time. Her eyes were not so clear, but the moment she saw Grace they brightened like a child's.
"My Little Grace! A video call, how lovely."
Grace smiled faintly, settling on the sofa. "Yes, Grandma. How have you been?"
"Very well, very well. Just waiting for you to come home for my birthday."
"I'll come as soon as I can. I promise." Grace said, her thumb grazing her lower lip. She hesitated, then chose the straight path. "Grandma… I've met someone. Someone I like."
"A person you like?" Grandma blinked, pleased surprise in her voice. "And what sort of girl is she?"
Devin and Hannah, it seemed, hadn't told her yet. Not surprising.
"I'll show you a photo," Grace said, shifting, tucking one foot beneath her.
"Good, good! Let me see."
Grace minimized the video, picked a few pictures, and sent them. "Well? Isn't she beautiful?"
Grandma squinted at the screen, then broke into delight.
"Beautiful. Too beautiful. Like a little fairy. You've got such good taste, my dear."
Grace exhaled, a small loosening in her chest. "We get along well. We've decided to marry. I'll bring her to meet you soon, what do you think?"
"Of course!" Grandma said at once, then added, thoughtful, "but tell me—beyond that pretty face, what's she like?"
"She's good. From a respectable family…"
Grandma interrupted, firm: "No, no. I mean her nature. Her character. That's what matters."
Grace thought a moment, then answered softly: "She's…simple in the best way. Clear inside. Pure-hearted. It's rare."
Grandma let out a soft breath. "That's good. That's all that matters. My Little Grace is too good to end up with someone poisonous. If a soul is bad, no matter how beautiful or how accomplished she is—you mustn't have her. Because people like that…"
Grandma kept talking, knitting advice out of love. Grace watched her, a little undone. Who else worried for her from the heart like this? No one.
Warmth moved through her, slow and sure. She didn't mind the rambling; she listened, smiling with her eyes, for half an hour.
By the time when they hung up, Grace was smiling, her brows relaxed, lips curved.
Grace glanced at her to-do list, although she has a backlog of tasks these days, she should be able to get through them.
…
Friday came. Grace finished her work early, drove to the City Hall to met Oakley.
Skylark's weather had been temperamental—drizzle, gray, the city wrapped in threadlike rain. Today broke the pattern: dry, the wind mild as a hand smoothing the air.
From a distance she saw Oakley step out of a car. Oakley wore a cream tweed set, very Chanel, her hair in soft waves over her shoulders. In the daylight her face was a quiet blaze—the kind of beauty that draws the eye and then keeps it.
They went in together, completed the forms, signed where told. The process ran like clear water. Not long after, they stepped back out with their slim marriage certificates in both hands.
The day was kind—neither cold nor hot. In the sunlight, Oakley studied the paper, and only then did it land with a small, startled thud: married. She had been single since birth, so to speak, and here she was—married to a woman. To Grace Barron, the woman she'd once held complicated, unflattering ideas about.
Was she sleepwalking? She lifted the certificate toward the sky as if to check whether the light would expose the dream.
At that moment, a young woman stepped out of a nearby dessert shop.
Oakley recognized her at once— straight black hair with blunt bangs, still baby-faced. One of the two girls they'd run into on that trip—the pair who had hovered and never quite collected the courage to ask for Grace's contact.
Of all places to meet again.
As before, the girl's eyes went shy the moment she saw Grace.
A small prickle ran under Oakley's skin. Not a thought, exactly—more like weather shifting.
A few seconds later, the girl jogged over and stopped in front of Grace. "Um, excuse me—are you Grace Barron?"
Oakley froze. They knew each other?
Grace tilted her head. "And you are…?"
"I'm Jane MacAdam. My brother is Jeff MacAdam— we went to the same college as you. He was in the same club. Do you remember him?"
"Oh—you're Jeff's sister." Understanding loosened Grace's face. "Nice to meet you."
She had probably crossed paths with the girl once or twice; no wonder she hadn't recognized her at first.
Jane pressed her fingertips together—index to index—voice sweet as confection. "What a coincidence. I saw you on that trip, and now again here, just out shopping. It must be fate. So… could we maybe, um, expand our circle a little?"
Oakley shuddered inside at the syrupy tone, her skin prickling. Grace looked baffled. "Expand what?"
Internet slang was not her field.
Flushing, Jane covered her mouth with a laugh. "I mean—could I add you on Apptalk? I promise I won't bother you. I'll be very quiet."
Goosebumps lifted on Oakley's arms—ridiculous, involuntary. She glanced at Grace, expression unreadable
Grace considered, then nodded. "All right."
Jeff was an old clubmate; it would have felt needlessly rude to refuse his sister.
They exchanged contacts.
Jane's smile blossomed, dimples like small commas in her cheeks. "Where are you headed now?"
"Dinner," Grace said, glancing around.
"Oh… then I won't disturb you. See you again someday."
"Bye." Grace said.
Jane retreated, shy in every step.
Grace watched her go, then turned back. "What would you like to eat?"
Oakley's gaze lagged on the street where Jane had disappeared. She slid a hand through her hair, crossed her arms. "Anything. Whatever you choose."
Grace narrowed her eyes. "You don't seem very … cheerful."
Oakley's mouth curved, and she mimicked Jane's little gesture, touching her forefingers together. Her voice went light, teasing. "Who says? I'm just tired. Work chewed me up today. Energy levels are low, that's all."
Odd. She couldn't name what felt off. And yet the words were reasonable.
Grace offered gently, "Want me to drive you home then?"
Oakley didn't answer at once. She wasn't sure what had latched onto her mood—only that something didn't sit right. Maybe she and that girl were simply oil and water. Oakley could be that way—particular, not built to get along with everyone.
Or maybe she was just wrung out. God knew what the last few weeks had asked of her.
Enough. Don't think it to death. Things will work themselves out—rivers always find their way to the sea.
She dropped her hands and smiled. "We're out anyway. Let's just eat nearby."
Grace nodded, studying her a moment longer. "You're sure you're all right? You don't look happy."
Oakley paused with her phone half-drawn, sighed. "Maybe because a pack of haters staked out my building today."
Grace's brow pulled tight. "They found your place?"
"They did. The people who hate me are multiplying," Oakley said, the weariness plain. "I'm thinking of moving out for a while, but I don't know where. It's a mess."
Grace thought for a moment, then said simply:
"Then… why don't you move in with me?"
Oakley blinked. "I can… move into your place?"
Grace smiled lazily, lifting the marriage licence between one hand so it gleamed in the light.
"We're married now. Legally wives. Sooner or later we'll live together. Why not start now?"